Not dead yet
by SillyWQ
Summary: Everyone knows the scene in shippuuden; Sasori's alleged death scene, but was it really his death...? DeiSaso
1. A new start, a new ending

Sasori looked into his grandmother's eyes as he leapt forward. Her eyes reflected the image of a broken man, one people would believe was lost to the world of insanity, had been picked out by the devil's hand before birth, to be one of the unlucky few destined to be born into sorrow, grown up in sorrow, and have a death filled of sorrow. Just the same way, he guessed his own eyes mirrored the emotion of the old, gray haired puppet master, that look that told him she knew the one truth, just as well as Sasori did. The truth that made their eyes fill with uncertainty, fear for what came next, and yet, understanding. It had already been decided. It had to be done.

There were lots of signs, clear as the daylight to a trained eye, and both of them knew. As a trained puppet master, there was no way he didn't notice them. He couldn't ignore them, but he couldn't follow them either. The slow creaking of old puppets' joints, the tiny motions of the wrinkled fingers, yellowing like old paper, the near-invisible, blue strings, it all seemed as noticeable, to him, as if she should have been waving her arms around like a maniac.

He knew they would come.

But, he repeated once more in his head as another glint of madness sprung from the impure eyes, it's time now. I won't fight it.

This was the eraser, thoroughly wiping over the sheet where all his sins were written down. There was still indents of the letters, chewed down corners and torn sides, but that wasn't more than he expected, was allowed to expect. Although it was blank to most people, he, the most feared puppet master in the world, could read those invisible letters.

What was his biggest sin, he wondered, previously written at that sheet of paper? Was it those families he'd killed back then? The parentless children? The shinobi he looked upon with blood staining his hands? It couldn't have been, he figured, because the so-called good guys killed too. They destroyed families, buildings, innocent peasants, although they would never admit to the accusations, but all the bad guys knew. Those like him, Sasori, were able to find the sins of people, though they didn't judge them. The good people were the judges and juries, not them.

So what was his sin? He had made himself puppet, defying every law of nature that existed, though, he didn't see the fault in that. How was that a bad thing? Why was he shunned? Sometimes, he'd felt so alone, so alone it hurt, and he didn't know why. The years, months, days, even seconds he'd been in the group Akatsuki, had all been counted, memorized, inspected, to find the one thing that was missing. He couldn't find it, and so, he gave up.

The other S-rank criminals had tried to cheer him up. At first, although it soon died down to only open invitations never used, they would ask him every week or so, if he wanted to join them and hit the town for a drink or some food. However cold-hearted outsiders might have thought the Akatsuki to be, they were human beings. They laughed at each other, told stories about missions or the funny noises heard last night, got angry when someone annoyed them, happy when something good happened, even cried when everything was too much to bear.

Sasori'd often been the one to lend his shoulder to shed the tears on. He wasn't much of a support, and didn't have the same insight as the other members that had emotions, showed emotions, either, but he gave the greatest advice, and listened when that was all one demanded of him.

But all of this made him want to find a shoulder of his own.

Itachi had often been the one to speak about love. How his mother would kiss him and Sasuke good night, his father would give them a careful smile and tell them he was proud of them. And there had been this girl; one Itachi had fallen for badly, if he remembered correctly. Like the greatest friend he had, even though he didn't know her that well, and like a sister through everything. Yet, more than all of that.

He'd left her and the love behind, though. Even worse, he'd killed both her and her family on the second mission he'd gotten in the Akatsuki. Sometimes, the Uchiha teenager had said, the pain was just unbearable, knowing he'd killed the only one he'd ever loved, and the only one that'd ever loved him back.

Itachi and Kisame found each other shortly after then, though, so the puppeteer guessed it didn't really matter anymore.

Kakuzu and Hidan, they'd been a strange duo from the very beginning. As soon as the latter was brought in, the former fell into chaos. Polar opposites, some would say. Alter egos, Sasori called them. They were like yin and yang, water and fire, but somehow, they seemed to fill each other's holes and faults, and even though this didn't mean they found harmony, a relationship started bounding between them. Weird how things turned out.

Now that he thought about it, Sasori realized that the noisy follower of Jashin had come into the Akatsuki right after his own new partner came, the replacement for Orochimaru. It had been a very bad time for anyone to come into the evil organization, as the order Sasori had developed, craved, was broken. Of course, Kakuzu got new partners all the time, but that had become a habit, something that eternally would go on. Eternally, eternal. The puppet master's very own word.

His partner had left. Sasori was alone. He'd left Sasori alone, breaking the continual routine of listening to others talk, working on his puppets and going out on missions. Before Orochimaru's leave, he could have listed each movement in the Akatsuki headquarters, by day, date, and time.

To make it all worse, the new partner was nothing like Orochimaru. A noisy, cocky, bold brat that seemed to have very different routines than everyone else. He didn't go to sleep at 11.58. He didn't sleep for exactly 7 hours. He didn't like miso ramen better than beef and seafood ramen.

What was worse, he didn't leave Sasori alone.

With constant nagging about his failed attempt at art, the constant need for attention, his whole attitude, Deidara from the village of Iwa had to be the worst partner the puppeteer had ever had. Although claiming to be an artist, the newest partner of Sasori's was a bomber. A bomber making bombs. A bomber making bombs, and believing those bombs to be art. How that was possible, even the old puppet was unable to answer to.

Orochimaru, having no other interest in his partner than asking him for a sedative, paralyzing or love potion from time to time- all of his subtle attempt at getting Itachi for himself failing- had agreed that Sasori's room was Sasori's room, they didn't have to meet besides of the missions, they didn't have anything in common, other than their partnership, and that thus, there was no reason for him to issue contact with the withdrawn puppet. This was highly appreciated, and it worked out too. Sasori was therefore left to his own business, just as Orochimaru to his.

But Deidara? No, Deidara just had to prove that his bombs were worthy of being called art, whenever he could, be it on a mission or in Sasori's room. Also, there were always questions. If it wasn't about the redhead's past, it was about the present. If it wasn't about his life as an Akatsuki member, it was about his private life. Did he eat? Where was his family? How did he grow up? Killing? Art? Entertainment?

When those questions were over with, the questions everyone wanted to be answered, the other questions, started. There were days between the questions, though, and the only reason Sasori bothered with answering them, was because they had already been partners for about a year or more. Also, the constant, unreasoned feeling of guilt wouldn't leave him when he pushed the man away.

His favourite item. The best smell. His opinion on art. Had he seen the sea before? How was life in Suna?

Some more months passed, and Deidara grew bolder.

How could he use his senses? Did he feel anything at all? Did he ever cry? Did he even have emotions?

'Do you want to love me?'

That last question had been the one that had changed his life, severely. It had been whispered between those full, rosy lips, into Sasori's ear, just the night the redhead decided he could as well lie down for once, try to experience this sleep the way the others did. It hadn't been particularly chilly, but, seeing as October just had started and the birds of the area took cover to other lands, there was a certain feeling of a slowly approaching autumn in the air. The moon hadn't been full, and yet, it lit up the sky with the help of the thousands of the children, borrowed from the sun. The blond had come into his room, god knew what he was thinking, and gently stroked the puppet's cheek. The shiver he gave and the question of Deidara's was all they needed for the very special relationship to start. 'I do,' had the answer been, and Sasori did.

He did want to cry.

He did want to feel.

He did want to be with Deidara.

As fate would have it, the great Sasori of the red sand did indeed want to love.

And now, here he stood, facing death by the hand of his own grandmother. His blonde lover had fled the scene, trying to protect him. The caring man had probably thought it through as he fought with the redhead, a rather common sight to affiliates. Running away from the stone hall, what would surely become Sasori's grave, he'd taken with him the Kyuubi, the most powerful of the great demons, and Kakashi, a man known for his great skills as a shinobi. They were the best of the attackers, and Deidara knew. Aside from that, Chiyo was a puppet master, a woman he should have no trouble defeating with his superior skills, and a young medical nin would be of no use to his untreatable, varied potions. The odds were on Sasori's side, made so by Deidara. This was why the redhead felt so guilty, so easily giving in to his emotions, the lithe hands that pulled him back, shoved him forward and denied him the choice of killing his beloved grandmother.

In a way, he guessed it was the blond's fault in the first place. Hadn't it been for him, he'd never have let anything get past that ice wall he'd built around himself. Yes, Sasori's new partner was indeed to blame. He'd surely been able to take down the copy nin, too, maybe outrun the kyuubi, if he hadn't insisted on leaving him with the weakest enemies, when Chiyo really was the worst opponent he could have ever gotten. Deidara had never before done such a thing, leaving Sasori with the weakest enemies. The terrorist must've had a plan, probably of eliminating the weakest enemies first, while he outran the toughest of them. I'm sorry, Deidara, Sasori apologized in his own mind, praying that it would somehow reach the man he loved, call through his mind and make him aware of the puppet master's death.

Surely, he was dying, but the Akatsuki's contract made him feel safe. Nothing would change when he was done. No one would miss him.

Everyone would lie.

_i__Creak… Creak…/i_

Smiling a crooked smile, a sure sign of his insanity, Sasori realized his parents were there to take him away.

The joints of their artificial bodies sung him the most beautiful lullaby he'd ever heard. It was as if though they'd given him his innocence back and made him into a pure child, one that would not grow up with the same absence of his parents as Sasori, one that would surely become the next Kazekage and fight for the good of the people. The redhead as of today couldn't see what that "good of the people" was.

The cold swords of the finest metal available gently pierced his heart, bringing a soft, inaudible moan to his lips as a warm blanket of comfort wrapped around him, soothing him, putting him to a dream like state that made him aware of the pain, even though he couldn't really bring himself to feel it. It was a bit of a relief, to know that he was done, that he hadn't to do anything for anyone at any time, anymore. Nothing had to matter to him anymore, because there was nothing more to do. He was already dead; his life had already played itself before his eyes as so many people told him that it would.

Now remained the regrets.

His first regret was leaving Deidara. He wouldn't be selfish and tell someone to bring him a last message that would surely ruin his life, nor would he leave him a note to tell him he loved him still, as if though death did not matter, that death was a wall made out of paper, one that could be easily brought down. But, the brat would surely take on the battles ahead of him without the leadership of Sasori, and as an S-rank nin, the redhead couldn't imagine that he would be missed in anyone else's eyes. Even though the blond would, hopefully, miss him some, he would surely go on with life, maybe even find some other that he could share those amazingly beautiful moments he'd shared with Sasori. With two fingers, the puppet touched the ring on his thumb, twisting it around the wood with the tiniest of moments, loosening it a little, but not enough for it to fall off.

The second would be Chiyo. He was surely cold-hearted, Sasori, letting his grandmother who still seemed to bear a certain relation to him, kill him. He wondered what it felt like. Probably as if he'd killed his own parents, he guessed. He should have waited. Should have let that pink-haired girl find out how to kill him, take his heart, crush it 'till it wouldn't beat even one more time, or would granny prefer to hill her grandson herself, maybe? Perhaps she felt that she did the redhead a favour, saving him from his insanity, his grief, his emptiness, that monster he'd become? At the moment that ring loosened even more, although it still tightly embraced his finger, he was unsure if it maybe was a huge favour, after all.

The last regret, the third, the greatest, was not finishing off Orochimaru. Sasori'd never liked leaving unfinished business behind, and even in death, he knew that would haunt him. That pale man would pay for breaking his eternal ring. After meeting Deidara, the redhead was never able to call himself art again. The blonde had made Sasori's life as fleeting as his own, and hadn't that snake left, the puppet would still be in that circle of watching and working, watching and working. The ring loosened completely, and if Sasori hadn't kept it on by pressing his index finger against it, it would surely have fallen into the dark abyss that the cracks in the ground revealed.

And so, the seal of Sasori's lips loosened, and he spilled everything he knew, almost everything he knew, about Orochimaru. After his dead, maybe that creep would join him in the deepest pit hell could master up, and Sasori'd finally get a chance to make him pay properly.

Suddenly, a great strong feeling of fear embraced him with its sharp claws. An insanely strong urge to struggle against the binds of death ran through him, but he found himself unable to move. Everything was so blurry, but at the same time, every sense was strengthened tenfold. Every colour was shining at him, competing with each other to take up the larger part of Sasori's eyesight. Every stone slipping, foot moving, finger wiggling sounded like the book of his life being closed with power, hollow sounds that echoed inside the ghost walls that were there to trap in, and take his soul away. Every taste, the taste of blood in his mouth, and the dirt on his lips. Every smell that he never before had experienced; chakra in the air, chakra that was, eventually, let go of, and it was not until then he fell to the ground and his ring rolled away in meaningless, yet controlled circles, before lying still, silent and cold.

Where was the brat now? Hadn't he sworn to always be there? Fight away the fears when overwhelming feelings was all he knew? He wasn't supposed to die like that, was he? i_I'm scared, Deidara, I'm scared!/i_ He yelled, pleading for his other half's warm arms' embrace. His words were soundless, though, and there was no hope. No one could hear him. Not the ground, not his parents, not his death dealers, and certainly, not his lover.

His one and only sin, was loving Deidara.

Though, as the darkness enveloped him in an eternal black world, it didn't matter.


	2. A passion ruined, a heart intact

The first thing he noticed upon entering the vast and crumbled hall, was the deathly noise. It wasn't the kind of noise that one could just shut out, hide one's ears from, or just try to ignore; it was omnipresent, endless, and above all, a constant nuisance. The blonde was unable to figure whether it was just him, or if it really was there. One thing, though, he knew for sure. The source of it, if there was one, was not a material thing. He was sure he couldn't just break it off by destroying something, like he'd done so many times before. Boom; silence. Perhaps that was the reason. Perhaps his ears had suffered the beautiful bang of an artwork's birth one time to many. He kicked away a rock that hit another two and created a tiny landslide. Destruction, yes. That was all he could make. At least it made a sound, something that took away the noise for a split second, to tell him that his life's one out of two biggest passions hadn't made him deaf. His relief over that would have been great, but he knew that his other passion was what had brought him there.

And whatever hope he had, his suspicions told him that he shouldn't believe that he would gain relief over what he would find.

Deidara's hair played with the wind. No; the wind played with his hair. No part of him was alive at the moment. He didn't really know if he was there, or if it was a dream. It wasn't a nightmare: It was worse. In the deepest, the terrifying messages that made him writhe and moan in his sleep out of fear, he would always have know what his fear was. He would be able to shout out his danger, and someone would wake him. In this wide-awake adventure, he had no way of knowing if his fears were true, or what to fear at all. He'd always feared fear itself, but this time, he'd rather spend a decade in Itachi's genjutsu than reveal what the future held.

He stepped forth, unable to hear if his footsteps would echo or not against the dusty stone. It was ironic how the end reminded him so much of the beginning, how every step forward took him years and years back. The scene was not unfamiliar; stone as far as the eye could see, was the number one description of his birth place. Iwagakure, the village of hidden stone, had always been a strict place, where freedom was for everyone but the freedom itself. You could do what you wanted, go where you wanted, say and think what you wanted, but only when following a long list of rules. The tsuchikage believed that rules and traditions were the way, and passed it down to his children, the citizens of his village. Some, though, refused to follow him. One of them, was a certain Deidara of Iwagakure.

Of course, he had no trouble living there. He was a famed artist; everyone knew his name and admired him. They wanted to buy a sculpture, put it on their tables and fireplaces, admire it with smiles and joy. He made more, and more were sold. He got money, but no money was used. He worked his way all to the top, but as most people who reached it knew, the top is only special when you've never been there.

After having enjoyed the view up there, he threw himself out in the open air of possibilities, leaving the mountain of expectations, and soared in heaven, blissfully ignoring the fact that he was falling, second by second, day by day.

He never hit the ground, either. Learned to fly like the free bird, to soar like he did when he cast all boundaries away. He flew all the way from his safe home, to a new chapter in the story of his life; the first chapter outside the restrain of Iwagakure's walls.

Deidara sighed. He was always missing the soaring feeling; very few things gave him that wonderful sensation. Flying, for one, gave it. The hard rock under his shoes took it away, made it seem like he'd never be up there to circle in the blue again. Reality, it was called, and he couldn't come up with any better name.

He rubbed the past out of his single visible eye, the other one hidden behind hair and metal, and stepped towards the future. Instead of the eager electricity in his fingertips that usually indicated the anticipation of a sharp turn of his life's plot, a strong, forceful hand was pressing him back. It was surely his fear of finding out what this twist would be, out of two evils.

He knelt down in the dust. His black pants were already covered in blood and smudges of clay, so a little sandy dirt didn't matter. It was no big loss, anyway. His hand brushed over something that felt familiar, and he gently stroked it, feeling how lifeless it felt, now that there was no smile, smirk or chuckle that followed. The lively red had never been the life of Sasori.

If he were to turn the redhead around, he would have to remove the swords. He would have to admit that his lover would no longer get up with a sharp; 'I can handle it myself, brat.' He would not be able to imagine that the dull brown, bored eyes had lost the spark of eternal life. He shivered just of the thought, and had to close his eyes to replace the image with a memory. Thousands of memories flashed over his eyelids in the tenth of a second, and he couldn't bear that either. Sitting back, he took a whiff of the dusty air as he admired the morbid masterpiece that was displayed for his eyes only.

Mother, father and child lying face down in the dust. All three had been made puppets long ago, but until recently, only one of them had been alive. He'd heard all of Sasori's dreams, and knew that he'd always wanted to sleep between his mother and father in a blissful slumber where no nightmares, no missions, no killing, no war or death would disturb their wonderland. Ironically enough, the redhead had finally fulfilled his goal; nothing would disturb his sleep this time.

A tear escaped his dry eye, and he let it stain his cheek, create a new river down his cheek and find its way to his chest. Ironically enough, he wasn't able to rejoice of the fact that his lover's dream came true.

Deidara sat there in silence for quite a while, arms on his knees, and head on his arms. A deep furrow of thought was staining his otherwise perfect young skin, while he gracefully caressed the image burned into his eyelids, and he absentmindedly rubbed his hand over his upper arm. A world without Sasori was a cold world, he realized, and he selfishly longed for the sun. He wished he could soar in the sky, make the sunbeams end his mourning, and take him back to the moment he should have been there. Alas, he knew it impossible.

He would never have Sasori back unless he did something.

He would never hear him speak to him if he didn't give him the breath.

He would never feel the warmth of his skin, lest he warmed it up.

He snapped his eyes open, weary with thought and longings, but with a new determination in them.

The puppet master had often told him, before the one night when their hungry minds found each other, how he wasn't able to feel. Many thought he meant emotionally, but as his unfortunate, early end implied, his numbness was only limited to his body. His true feelings, his true life, was his heart, and although pierced, Deidara knew it wasn't too late. It was still alive, due to poisons designed for just that purpose. It wouldn't last long, though, and he knew he had to hurry. Every grain of the hourglass counted. Every grain hit the wasted time like a huge, Chinese gong ringing out. The rhythm of it was steady, mingling with the ear deafening noise, and made his heartbeat seem uneven and fast.

He finally dared touching the face he'd wanted to touch for so long. After tracing the long, surely poisoned swords with a finger, he gave them a quick, but very gentle, pull, gagging on the rough and almost rubbery feeling of the icy blades sliding out of his lover's heart. He then proceeded to throw them away like the hate they brought, and lifted Sasori away from his death's place, almost as if he could then believe that he'd moved by himself.

Unable to resist, Deidara brushed a finger over his lover's cold, smooth cheek. It wasn't very different from how it had been only a day ago, perhaps a bit colder, and the soft lips were just as those he'd kissed. He traced them. Cracked and dry. His daring, second-long smile fell. What had he imagined? They were nothing like those. Finally, he opened the eyes that had surely been closed upon his collision with the ground. They were blank. Black. Empty.

He could try to fool himself; it was as if he could twist the white cylinder that held his heart just right, the spark would restart like a fire on dry autumn leaves, and spread to start the wild burning fire that was their united life and love. He could kiss the lips, smile and tell him that everything would be all right, tell him to not speak a word, as silence was gold worth. He could lie, and tell himself the same.

Tick tack, he reminded himself, and let his hand come to a rest beside the pierced container. How could the old lady bring herself to do something so horrible? Sasori loved her just as much as she loved him, and still, she betrayed him of his dream, his eternity as the piece of art he was.

Being the first to do so since it was put on, Deidara carefully removed the lid of the container, twisting it slightly to the right, pulling it towards him, then two inches to the left. Pull, right, pull, left. And then, it was off. The blonde took a deep breath, and released it.

Before him, filling the middle of the cylinder, Sasori's tender heart was still pulsing, beating and twitching calmly. The cylinder's inside was not white, nor was it painted. Red liquid the same colour as his hair stained the inside with a thin layer of blood. Impurities and torn flesh standing out as black were also to be found over the restraining walls, reminding him that the redhead was not perfect: He had once been human, and on the inside, he still was. As he watched the heart pulse and beat, Deidara knew what the white noise was.

It was the hollow, empty ringing of death's winds blowing in the void space in his chest, where his own heart once had lain.

But he was going to end it.

Reaching for a kunai with the one arm that Kakuzu had sewn on with expertise before the blonde received the horrific news, Deidara brought it to his chest, closing his eyes and savouring the feel of cold steel through the top, fish net part of his t-shirt. He wondered what Sasori thought in his last minute. What did he do? How did he act? Did he miss Deidara? There were so many questions unanswered, but now, he'd finally get his answers.

He would, with no doubt, be reunited with his partner.

He tilted the kunai, carelessly letting the thinnest tip pierce the outer layer of skin, and brought it just inside the neck of his shirt. Thrusting it down in one less graceful motion, he ripped his shirt in two, baring his chest for the heavy air. With nothing to protect him, he could feel the dust and poison seeping into his pores, forcing him to be a part of the reality he just didn't want to face. He shrugged off both his cloak and his t-shirt, lifting the kunai again. He opened his eyes; he would have to be careful, so he wouldn't hit something he didn't want to hit. Pain was something he'd never enjoyed.

The kunai was pointed at his chest again, but this time, it carefully slid between tightly closed lips, cutting the black, thick string that was the reason the mouth was closed. It was too dangerous to let be, mainly because it, unlike the hands located at his palms, led way straight to his heart. He dropped the kunai, and pulled the thread out, stitch by stitch, wincing every time it snapped out of the lower or upper lip. The Punishment, he called it from time to time. Punishment for everyone he'd let down, everything he'd neglected, killed, hurt. His breath quickened, and he realized he couldn't continue like that. Holding his breath, he curled the thread around his fingers, arched his back, bit his lip, and yanked.

The pain was unimaginable. After having left it sewn up for all those years, his flesh had grown back around what his body believed to be wounds, resulting in releasing his fourth mouth a living nightmare. His lower lip was bleeding; his teeth dug into it as soon as his chest was free of the thread. And now, he would have to wait for it to awaken.

It was silent, as always, taking time to realize it was free. The tongue licked the now thread-free slit, first once to find out about the freedom, then a second time to taste the air outside. Deidara moaned in pain as it stretched open in a silent, breathless yawn. It was a long time since he'd felt the sensation of the saliva-drenched cave cooling down in the outside air. Not only did it feel weird, and wrong, but it hurt like hell.

Realizing he was wasting time, he reached down into the cylinder, and carefully took the beating heart of his lover. He held it up to eye level, wondering if the beautiful muscle would rot away in the mortals' air. An angel's heart, put in the body of a devil. His own heartbeat increased again, and he closed his eyes. Finally, he put it to his lips, his chest mouth's lips, and felt the large tongue loll out to taste it. Although he knew it was nothing to worry about, he used every bit of concentration he had to make sure his body would not mistake it for food, and when he was sure he had done the best he could, he roughly and quickly shoved it inside, feeling the teeth clamp down around his wrist with bruising power.

The blonde roared in pain and attempted at withdrawing his hand, finding it useless as long as it kept biting that hard. His skin was caught on one of the sharper teeth, and tore as he gave a pull, making him whimper. With his other hand, he pried the jaws open to free himself from the dangerous jaws. Already, there were clear indents from the teeth, as well as several blood red marks under his skin, indicating that the ripped flesh wasn't the only wound bleeding.

He opened his eyes again, protectively throwing his arms around his chest to keep the mouth shut, and the new heart in, in case it would be needed. With surprise, and relief, he felt his body calm down and accept the intruder. Though, one thing remained; the heart was not yet swallowed.

Suddenly, his whole body lurched forward. Deidara's eyes flew wide open, and his open, gasping mouth was unable to do anything but do just that; gasp for air to replace what had been hit out of his lungs. A huge suction was sending a sharp pain through his body. Not one, but two swallows did it take for him to devour the heart, and two swallows was all it took for him to feel nauseous like none before him had ever felt.

He hit the ground; stripped of all power by the huge strain it was to force his love's heart down. He rolled onto his back, his harsh panting making the dust in the air dance like love struck birds in the start of spring. A line of drool was making its way down his cheek, and he knew he wouldn't have been able to stop it, not even if his life should've depended on it. Remains of the pain, all pain ever caused on him, it seemed, lay in his fingertips, and caused a light feeling to take over, as if a glowing hot volcano rock had just been removed from atop him.

Everything was pounding. The pulsing was so real, he wondered if it wasn't the world pulsing, if perhaps he'd angered the volcano, and it was spewing rocks, causing the earth to tremble with fear. He opened his eyes, watching as every single molecule in the room emitted some sort of echo, like ripples in a pond, making the open, blurry air take the shape of an ocean's surface. It sickened Deidara, and the noise returned, louder than before.

'Please stop,' he silently begged. 'Please stop.'

Rolling back onto his stomach, the blonde let go of the realm of the awake, and slipped into the land of darkness.


	3. An awakening, a reunion

Sasori awoke. Just that simple thing was enough to make him wonder. He was breathing, not fresh air, he noted, and could feel the cracked ground underneath him. Since when could he properly do either of those?

He pushed himself up on two arms, immediately noticing a change in the air; it was purer, fresher. Tiny rocks fell off his bare, soft chest, and he realized he'd been sleeping on the ground, but how? Wasn't he dead? He opened his eyes, but only one could see. Horror and fear taking hold of him, he rushed a hand to his left eye, only to meet something soft, light and familiar.

Hair. Hair was hanging in front of his face. Threads of sunlight woven into a material so divine, it seemed to brighten the word around him. Like a moth flocking to light, his happiness, and slight fear for the unknown, came back to him in an even stream. He brushed it away, meeting metal instead. His heart rate increased, causing something most peculiar to happen.

His hand licked his chin.

It suddenly dawned on him. Slowly, he pulled the hand away to look at it. It was a mouth. On his palm. As far as he knew, only one body, belonging to one person, had that. He carefully turned the hand, eyes tearing up as he studied the slim, but powerful, fingers, nails painted black as if evil lived in his fingertips, tracing every scar with his surely blue eyes, knowing they made out the hand that he had been asking for at death's doorstep.

He could always trust his lover to save him.

The thought brought a rare smile to his face, and he brought the hand to his face, ignoring the splatter of blood. He'd always longed being as close to Deidara as possible, and finally, his dream was true.

He was inside of Deidara.

Their souls were fused into one body.

They were no longer skin and blood's length apart.

Taking a shaky breath, he lay back down, this time on his, Deidara's, back, taking his time to feel every crook and cranny of the human body, a tear of happiness finally rolling down his cheek. He'd never ever felt a sensation that strong before; the emotional explosion was overwhelming, like a ten feet wave of lukewarm water hitting knocking him off his feet, washing him away from shore and to somewhere safe, where nothing but his lightheaded feeling of happiness mattered.

"Danna?"

His body sat up, and his eyes blinked in confusion, searching for something he didn't know what was. Controlled panic took over as the dark hand of fear clenched around his heart. He looked down at the empty cylinder, where his heart had been kept for all too long, where blood stained each wall and the ground around it. I can't feel his presence, something told him, a voice that only one person dominated. It's too heavy, where is he?

"Oh god, what have I done?"

A pang of raw want ran through Sasori, as the need to touch his lover increased tenfold. Stronger than when he saw him bestowed with luck, stronger than when he saw him hurt, stronger than when they made love, and became one, unified and oblivious to anything but each other and the feelings they shared.

"I'm here."

The blue eyes widened, frozen open. A hand was brought up to his lips, and another thought ran through him. I've gone insane, this new thought said. Without Sasori, I'm going insane.

"You're going to do fine, brat." Deidara's mouth had moved again, and he seemed just as surprised. Then again, he couldn't be blamed. "I _am_ here, fool. I'm not letting you fall into a deeper sorrow just like that."

This seemed to make the blonde realize, and relief was what they felt now. There was a long silence, and with every second ticking by, with every speck of dust that had risen, hitting the ground, their realization grew bigger. A crooked smile made its way over their face, and blonde hair floated around their knees as they drew their legs to their chest, two separate souls in one body swirling into an embrace, emotionally stronger, closer and more fulfilling than ever before.

They didn't need words.

They were one.

* * *

...Thank you so much for reading my story. :) I hope you liked it.

_(Since a number of people (who are not logged in and I therefore cannot reply to) have been asking me this:_  
_The story is complete. No more chapters. Thank you._)


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